The Backup Asset Page 8

  “We are where we are today because of Dimitrov, Petya. He’s got that genius strategist mind. He’s what you need to win this war.”

  “Do you think he’ll accept? He had a heart attack right here, in this office.”

  “I’m sure he will, Petya. He won’t be able to resist the thought of the three of us working together again.”

  ...16

  ...Tuesday, March 22, 8:31PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)

  ...Vernon Blackburn’s Residence

  ...Chesapeake, Virginia

  Vernon took another bite, absent-mindedly playing with his food. His wife was sharing some work story at the dinner table, but he couldn’t focus, couldn’t follow what she was saying. His mind wandered a lot lately, escaping reality.

  Two weeks had passed since he had met Michelle at his favorite bar, the 1700 Somewhere. He’d regretted the encounter immediately; that type of affair got people, careers, and marriages destroyed. Yet he’d gone back twice looking for her. No one had seen her since. Then he started avoiding the one bar where he felt like home, or even better. And that hurt. It felt like he’d lost his best friend somehow. A ridiculous thought, but that’s how he felt.

  “Really?” His wife stood abruptly, pushing the chair back and slamming down her fork. “Have you been hearing anything I’ve said? Do I even matter to you anymore?”

  “Madi,” he pleaded in a pacifying tone, “I’m sorry, baby, I’m just tired, that’s all. My mind wanders when I’m tired.”

  “So how exactly am I supposed to reach you? Book a fucking appointment during business hours?”

  She sometimes got irrationally angry, her bottled-up frustrations clouding her judgment and making her see everything in darker colors than they really were. Her eyes were throwing menacing glares, and her beautiful face reflected her internal anguish. Vernon braced himself for a long argument. Their fights were usually long and painful exercises in diplomacy and self-control. But he loved his wife. Deep down he desperately wanted to make her happy, yet he was doing stupid things like that Michelle encounter.

  “Baby, you can talk to me now, I promise I’ll pay attention.” He pushed his plate away and focused on her. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “You’re what’s on my mind, Vern. You. You bring your work home a lot, and not in a good way. You’re down all the time, depressed, sour. Living with you is like driving through this endless dark tunnel. I want to feel alive. Is that too much to ask?”

  “No . . . It’s just that I’m stressed out with work, baby, I can’t shake it off.”

  “Well, you better figure out a way, Vern. You have a permanent frown on your forehead. I don’t even exist anymore; you don’t even see me. You come home stinking of some bar or another, and you don’t even make eye contact with me.”

  “Oh, come on, can’t be that bad,” he attempted, aware that he was starting to get angry too.

  “Can’t be that bad, huh? When’s the last time we went out? Did you even notice it’s been months? What’s happening to you, to us? We deserve to have some fun, to live a little.”

  “It’s just the work, baby, nothing more, I swear.”

  “Go easy with the swearing. Don’t think I don’t smell the stink of bar whores on you. I let it slide a couple of times, thinking it’s a phase and you’ll come out of it, but I don’t know anymore. I don’t know you anymore.”

  He felt a wave of anger rise, triggered by guilt and shame. She didn’t deserve this . . . Yet he was pushed to the limit, backed against the wall.

  “So I’m to blame for trying to make a living? Is that what you’re saying?” He stood and started to pace the room. My work is not that easy. It’s stressing me out. What am I supposed to do?

  “Leave your work in the goddamn office, that’s what I do. I work, too, but I don’t get drunk every other day to forget about it.”

  “Madi, you don’t get it. You don’t get how hard what I do is. It’s not your fault, but I can’t. . . I can’t extricate myself. I keep replaying things in my mind. Conversations, arguments, theories.”

  “Well, you better try. You better figure it out. You’re a PhD for crying out loud. You’re smart, think of something. If I can come home with a smile on my face every day, give you a hug, treat you like you exist and live here, why can’t you? Do you think I’m not stressed out? Do you think my boss isn’t an asshole? Do you think I have it super easy at work? Everybody’s got crap going on in their lives, but some people are smart and decide to leave the crap at work. It’s a decision you need to make; it’s that simple.”

  He stood by the window, looking outside at the faint city lights in the moonless night. That’s what they were, faint flickering lights in an endless pitch black night. What made it worse was that she was right.

  “I wanna feel alive, Vern,” she continued, her voice turning from angry to pleading. “I want to go out with you, dance, have some fun. I want you to buy me flowers and make love to me. Do you even know how long it’s been?”

  He felt another pang of anger.

  “All you can think of is yourself, Madi. Jeez . . . it’s unbelievable,” he fired back. “It’s always about you and what you want! When’s the last time you cared about what I want?”

  “How about today, when I asked you what you wanted for dinner, and I fucking fixed you precisely that! Or when I opened the door and let you come in, after drinking who knows where with who knows whom! You take it all for granted, don’t you? Well, I’m not your fucking servant!”

  “But that’s not what I need . . . ” he said, letting his anger subside. “I couldn’t care less if you fed me tuna from the can. I need to be able to unwind at home just as I do at the bar, where no one judges me.”

  “Ahh . . . you’re such an idiot, Vern, I just can’t believe it! Those people let you drink in peace ’cause they don’t give a fuck about you, that’s why. I care about you and I’m trying to help you. But you have to make a commitment to change. You need to bring your clipboard and start taking notes with what needs to happen to help our marriage survive. I have a whole damn list!”

  “Oh, I am sure you do!” Vern yelled. “There’s no limit to your selfishness!”

  He regretted the words the moment they came out. He saw Madison’s eyes open wide in dismay.

  “Baby . . .” He reached out, trying to hold her hand.

  “Don’t touch me!” She turned and started for the garage. “This is your final warning, mister, your wake-up call.”

  She slammed the garage door behind her. He rushed to catch up with her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “None of your fucking business, not until you get your shit together.”

  She started the car engine and left, screeching her tires against the pavement. Vernon stood there, speechless, unable to move, watching her brake lights disappear in the darkness. He couldn’t lose her. Oh, God, no . . .

  ...17

  ...Wednesday, March 23, 9:02AM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)

  ...Russian Ministry of Defense

  ...Moscow, Russia

  Myatlev had to admit Abramovich moved fast when he really wanted something. Only a day after he had suggested to Abramovich that they bring Dimitrov back as defense minister, Myatlev had already been set up in a new office in the Ministry of Defense, on the top floor, right next to Dimitrov’s old quarters.

  The Ministry of Defense was only minutes away from the Kremlin, at the center of Moscow. It was housed in a massive building as only communists could build; a gray, dull palace housing thousands of offices, a monument to communist bureaucracy.

  Yet his new office was decorated to his modern, cosmopolitan taste, down to his favorite art pieces, cigar brands, and perfectly chilled bottle of Stolichnaya. His new assistant was young, very pretty, probably SVR, and judging by her smile, instructed to go to any length to fulfill his wishes. Yes, when he wanted, President Abramovich had class.

  Dimitrov was already on his way in from the Caspian. He had boarded a
flight immediately after accepting the reinstatement with enthusiasm. Abramovich wanted both of them to join him for a late lunch, to catch up and discuss new plans. New plans for his war . . . that was all he cared about.

  Myatlev didn’t want to waste time waiting around for Dimitrov’s arrival. He had requested the files for all the top resources who Division Seven had enrolled, planning to interview them personally, one by one.

  He looked at the first file, the most recent addition to Division Seven, a highly decorated intelligence officer by the name of Evgheni Aleksandrovich Smolin. He had built a reputation that he’d do anything to get the mission done, employing a variety of unusual methods in his tradecraft. Interesting.

  A few minutes later, Smolin entered Myatlev’s office, saluting by the book, with a hint of almost imperceptible hesitation as he recognized Myatlev.

  “You asked to see me, sir?”

  “Take a seat, Smolin.”

  “Sir.”

  “Have you recruited foreign assets before, Smolin?”

  “Yes, sir, for years.”

  “What do you like most about it?”

  “Sir?” Smolin frowned, trying to understand the meaning of the question.

  “A man with your results must like what he does,” Myatlev clarified, tapping his fingers on Smolin’s personnel file. “So, again, what do you like the most about what you do?”

  “Umm . . . The sense of power it gives me,” Smolin said after hesitating a little.

  “Excellent,” Myatlev answered, reaching for a cigar and offering one to Smolin. “Almost like playing God, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” Smolin ventured a faint smile.

  He accepted the cigar with a nod and both men focused on lighting up for a while, savoring the thick smoke.

  “How do you recruit, Smolin?” Myatlev resumed the interview.

  “I offer the assets something they need. Money, solutions to their problems, umm . . . sex,” he said, unable to refrain a quick smile.

  “Yes, I’ve heard that about you,” Myatlev laughed. “If it works, that’s fine by me.”

  “Good to know, sir.”

  “All right, Smolin, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to open your mind from working a localized asset into thinking wide nets, redundancies, and backups for every single source.”

  “Sir?”

  “Everyone is gettable, Smolin, everyone. If they don’t have a problem that we can fix in return for their intelligence, then let’s create one for them! It’s cheaper than paying for the intel anyway. I want you to organize the largest network of assets anyone has ever had, and extract every bit of intel you can get.”

  “Intel on what, sir?”

  “On everything,” Myatlev answered with a wicked smile. “We don’t know what we don’t know. Who knows what’s out there? Let’s put our ears to the ground and get everything we can.”

  “How are we going to go through so much information?”

  “I’ll organize a center for information processing; I’ll set it up on this end. You just get me the information; we’ll filter and analyze here, in Moscow. Then we’ll figure out what we need to pursue.”

  “Sir, that’s highly unusual for an intelligence operation, I mean that with all due respect.”

  “I know it is . . . but soon you’ll see the value of my plan,” Myatlev said, amused that Smolin challenged him. That meant he had a brain and a spine, both very useful assets for a foreign intelligence leader.

  “Sir, if we’re not after a certain target in our intelligence efforts, then are we targeting a specific geographical area?”

  “Yes,” Myatlev answered, “of course. The United States.”

  “I am to build a network of assets in the entire United States, sir?”

  “Precisely. Is this too large an operation for you to handle, Smolin?”

  “No, sir, just making sure I understand the task correctly. There are almost a million Russian immigrants in the US. I have a good place to start.”

  “Excellent. Anything else?”

  “Umm . . . If I may, I was surprised to see you, a famously wealthy businessman, having an office here, and being involved in intelligence work, sir.”

  “So you think that if I’m rich, my duties to Mother Russia suddenly cease to exist? I have taken an oath,” Myatlev said. “That oath goes with me to my grave.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you. That is inspiring.”

  “I started in intelligence, just like you, and I never stopped using the skills I have acquired. I used them in business just as much as I did in the early days of my intelligence career. And you’re right, Smolin, it’s all about the power, and what we can do with it for our country. So go out there, cast a wide net for us. Find ways in; establish an asset array. Grab that power for Mother Russia,” Myatlev ended his speech closing his fist in the air.

  Judging by the inspired, almost fanatical look in Smolin’s eyes, Myatlev knew he’d chosen well. Smolin was going to do a great job. And yes, he was still good at this; he could still motivate people to go to their death if needed. He still had it in him.

  ...18

  ...Wednesday, March 23, 6:19PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)

  ...Quentin Hadden’s Residence

  ...Norfolk, Virginia

  Quentin let his briefcase drop to the floor as soon as he stepped inside his home. Closing the door behind him, he kicked off his shoes and started taking off his work clothes, in a hurry to separate himself from the awful day he’d had in the office.

  He lived alone. He had gone through life without feeling the need for a family, and without being tempted to commit to one. There had been relationships in his life, but he managed to keep them at arm’s length somehow, breaking a few hearts in the process. That was why no one waited for him to come home from work, but he didn’t miss that.

  He skipped his traditional routine involving a shower followed by a TV dinner, and poured himself a large bourbon instead. He went straight to his home office and powered up his laptop.

  He took a big gulp of the distilled spirits, enjoying the sensation it left behind as it went down. It burned his throat, then warmed his stomach, and from there, seeped relaxation in his weary muscles. He massaged his high, prominent forehead, trying to dissipate the early signs of a headache, then opened his Web browser and clicked on one of his favorite links stored among the navigation bar favorites.

  The browser immediately opened a site aptly named Rat Olympics, bearing the tag line, “A Cyber Café for the White-Collar Working Wounded.” He logged in and immediately received a welcome message accompanied by a familiar chime.

  Welcome, DespeRatt—the system acknowledged him.

  Several other users were logged in the chat room, and Quentin typed his first message without having someone specific in mind. Most users there were regulars, familiar with one another.

  DespeRatt: I’m having a terrible few days . . . hope it ends soon.

  Another user quickly responded.

  LostGirl: What’s going on?

  DespeRatt: My free spirit is dying under the pressures of idiocy. Can’t stand it anymore

  . . . I caught myself trying to figure out what he wants instead of doing what’s right.

  LostGirl: It can happen . . . it’s normal to cave under pressure at some point, we all do. Cut yourself some slack.

  DespeRatt: I’m turning conflict-adverse . . . a fucking coward! I can’t stand it anymore! WTF am I gonna do?

  JustAnnonymous: Move on, man, don’t cling to hell, or hell’ll cling to ya’.

  LostGirl: Yup, that’s right. Leaving your hell will seem like the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

  DespeRatt: What—and start over from scratch? Having to prove myself every day, not knowing whose ass to kiss? How’s that better?

  JustAnnonymous: How many years have you been there?

  DespeRatt: Almost thirteen.

  JustAnnonymous: That’s your problem. You’ve become codependent, forgotten how to fi
ght, how to get out there and hunt. Wake up!

  DespeRatt: Fuck . . .

  JustAnnonymous: I’m willing to bet you don’t even have an updated résumé.

  DespeRatt: Okay, I’ll give you that, you win. I can update the damn résumé, but starting over and not being sure who’s who at the new place, etc.?

  LostGirl: Stop lying to yourself . . . don’t you have to prove yourself every day now, to an adverse manager no less? Do you know whose ass to kiss now? I seriously doubt it, ’cause if you did, you wouldn’t be in this bind.

  DespeRatt: Point taken. Arghhh . . . LostGirl, you have no mercy.

  LostGirl: Oh, but I do . . . I’m trying to set you free, dear Ratt.

  DespeRatt: True. Thank you for your brutal yet kind help.

  LostGirl: Repeat after me: fuck these bastards!

  DespeRatt: Yeah, fuck these bastards.

  He raised his glass toward an invisible LostGirl and drank down the remnants of his bourbon.

  JustAnnonymous: Hear, hear!

  DespeRatt: Gotta go now, guys, got a résumé to write. SYT

  LostGirl: See you tomorrow, Ratt, and may your résumé writing be inspired.

  Quentin closed the Rat Olympics browser window and opened a Google search page instead. He approached his task with the seriousness he engaged when working on a weapons systems project. Thorough, well documented, well researched, all calculations verified twice, and all steps written down for future reference.

  He retrieved several sample defense engineer résumés off the Internet and looked through them. Things had changed dramatically in the past twelve years or so. His current résumé was well below expectations; it was a complete write-off.

  He right-clicked on his desktop, created a new Word document, and renamed it QuentinHaddenResume.docx. Then he started typing.

  ...19

  ...Thursday, March 24, 6:18PM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)

  ...Alex Hoffmann’s Residence